


Refrain

by iveneadlev



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grieving John, Multi, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-TEH, S4 doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iveneadlev/pseuds/iveneadlev
Summary: Home, he reflected bitterly.Home just died right in front of my eyes.





	1. Ground Zero

**_John_ **

There was blood on John's shoes. He'd been staring at it for quite some time now. Just a small amount, right on the toes, duller than it was before now that it had dried a bit. You couldn't see it very well- his shoes were dark enough that it was almost invisible. But it was definitely there. The puddle it came from was beside his foot. He hadn't moved from that spot in over an hour, and his body was starting to protest at the absolute stillness it was forced into.

“Sir?”

The voice came from in front of him, and John found the will to tear his eyes away from his shoes to see who was talking. She had an expression of concern and- pity?- plastered on her face.

“You're Dr. Watson, aren't you? You solve th- solved. Sorry.” She swallowed, shaking her head at herself. “You solved the cases with, um, with Mr. Holmes?”

John stood there, silent. He knew if he spoke, he'd never stop speaking. And he couldn't break down here. Not in front of a perfect stranger, in the middle of the street.

“I'm... I'm so sorry, Dr. Watson. He's gone. But he didn't suffer. I'm so sor-”

John didn't care to hear any more of this. He already knew this, knew what had happened. He turned on his heel and strode away from the woman. He didn't know, nor did he particularly care, where he was going- he just knew he needed to get away. From there. From the body he knew lay on a slab in that hospital. From himself.

 

He ended up at the Tube station, and decided that it was probably the best that he go home. _Home_ , he reflected bitterly. _Home just died right in front of my eyes_. He fumbled around in his left pocket for his Oyster card, and it wasn't until he took it out that he realised how hard his hand was shaking.

The station wasn't terribly busy, but it was far from empty. It was best this way- John would go unnoticed in the crowd, and he wouldn't be able to attempt the things that came to his mind as soon as he saw the tracks in front of him. Not without being pulled back.

He boarded the train, but didn't even bother looking for a seat he knew wouldn't be there. Instead, he wrapped both hands round a pole and rested his head on the cool metal.

_He's gone. He's really gone, and now you are too. You fucking idiot._

He felt his phone ring in his pocket. He knew he should hear it, too, but he couldn't, not over the static in his head. Mycroft would be looking for him- probably watching him right now, somehow. There was no way John would even dare answer that call. Not here.

The static in his head grew to consume the rest of his body as the train rattled onwards.


	2. Dear Sherlock

_**Sherlock** _

 

He'd cleaned the blood off of his face already. Scrubbed it away, let it flow down the drain. Disinfected, sanitised, washed, clean. _Physically_ clean. But his soul felt dirtier than ever. There should have been happiness, relief, pride that he'd finally gotten rid of the biggest danger to the lives of everybody he loved. But all he felt was a growing shame- and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about how he just ripped himself from the life of John Watson in the cruelest, most inhuman way possible. About the broken man outside on the street.

 

About how no suture, no graft, no amount of surgery could ever fix what he had broken that day.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft came later- John had finally left his vigil outside the hospital. Sherlock knew nobody would try to harm him- there was nobody left to- but that he was still in danger. This time, however, there was nothing Sherlock could do to help. John Watson was alone, grieving, unsafe, everything he was not meant to be, never _meant_ to be- and there wasn't a damn thing Sherlock could do to remedy that.

 

The suit his brother had brought for him lay on the bed. Sherlock was to leave on a private jet that night, possibly never to return to Baker Street again. He'd known, of course, even before the events on the roof that it was a possibility he'd die- just wished it didn't have to be like this. Being dead, technically, but still being alive to feel the pain of it.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, with an almost-soft authority from the doorway of the room, “You really do need to hurry. The press is already beginning to convene outside and should you stay much longer it is inevitable that you be spotted. I shouldn't need to tell you about the social crucifixion that that would bring down upon us all.”

 

“Fine, yes, okay. I'll get changed and we can leave.” Mycroft nodded and went to leave, before Sherlock strode the two steps to the doorway and caught him by his elbow. His voice was close to breaking and he knew it sounded like a plea when he said, “Mycroft. You have to keep him safe. I don't care what it takes, I don't care how much money it costs, John Watson's safety- his life- must be protected. For me, Mycroft.” He paused, searching his brothers eyes, blue like his own, for any sign that this request would be heard. “Please.”

 

The seconds passed between them and they felt like hours. Mycroft finally nodded, just once.

 

“Of course, Sherlock. Yes, of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The plane was just like every other that he'd flown on- sleek, modern, and very luxurious. Plump leather seats, just eight of them, all swivelled towards the front of the plane in preparation for take-off. Wood grain panels, polished so heavily that you could see yourself reflected in them. A small platter of snack foods, mostly nuts, placed on the table in front of Sherlock's seat. He took all of this in as he boarded the plane, his brother in front of him.

 

From his jacket, Mycroft pulled a small, white envelope and placed it in Sherlock's outstretched hand. “Your assignment,” he said, without looking Sherlock in the eye. “I trust that once it is completed, you shall return to us?”

 

“Yes. Of course. That is, if I survive it.”

 

Mycroft's eyes pierced into Sherlock's own then. “You _will_ survive. You _will_ return. This is non-negotiable, Sherlock.” The edge in his voice softened then, just slightly. “You're very skilled, you know. Even I can admit that. You've been handling cases, some not unlike this, since you were a boy. This is no different. So, when you've finished, and you're ready to return to us... you know where I am.” Sherlock nodded, and they stood in silence for a short few seconds, just staring. The words unspoken were near tangible. Mycroft checked his watch, and signalled people waiting outside the plane to board. They clattered heavily up the stairs, and Sherlock reached out with his hand. Mycroft grasped it, shook it once, and left the plane.

 

“Are you ready, Mr. Holmes?” The pilot, a young woman Sherlock immediately deduced was considering breaking it off with her long-time boyfriend, had poked her head round the cockpit door.

 

He nodded once, and fell into his seat, not bothering to strap in. The envelope in his hand weighed more than he could have anticipated. But he'd have to open it at some stage, and getting it over and done with now seemed like the most sensible option. After tearing open the thick paper and extracting the letter from within, he scanned the words on the page, not truly taking them in, not yet. Not until he reached the bottom of the page, and saw the name of the man who had assigned him the case.

 

_Victor Trevor._


	3. Static

_**John** _

 

John remained in his catatonic state the entire way back to the flat in Baker Street, barely registering where he was the entire trip. He could not tear his eyes from the blood on his shoe. He could not stop thinking about how his entire life had just evaporated right before his eyes. He could not stop thinking about Sherlock.

 

From the Tube station, he let his feet take him where he wanted- no, needed- to go. The walk was uneventful. No snipers trying to take him out. No mysterious, Mycroft-summoned cars attempting a borderline kidnapping. But worst of all, no excited post-case babble, no near-unconscious stream of deductions, no silent brooding. Simply silence, and the sound of John's feet dragging slightly along the pavement. The sound was more hellish than it could ever have been imagined to be.

 

The static vanished once John reached the door to the flat. Nothing looked different. Had he not known better, he would have opened the door and expected to see Mrs. Hudson rushing about the place, cleaning and tidying and generally being not-their-housekeeper. He would have gone up the stairs to see Sherlock microwaving eyeballs, or perhaps to find him deep within his mind palace, as he would have been for days on end. Opening that door was exactly the last thing he wanted to do at that moment, because he knew the truth of what lay behind it. But he had to, and so he did.

 

Mrs. Hudson was there, at her dining table in her kitchen. John could hear her sobs from the front hall- she knew already. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the wall in the narrow hallway.

 

“John? John!” Her voice broke over the syllables as she stood up from her seat and almost ran to John's side. “John, what's happened? What's all this about Sherlo-” Her own choking sobs cut her off, and she dabbed a tissue to her eyes. She stared at John, her eyebrows knitted together in fear and grief. John said nothing, only shook his head. Mrs. Hudson broke down in tears again, practically throwing herself into John's arms. “He's gone, John? He's really gone?”

 

Even though the flat was near silent, John could barely make out his own voice. “Yes. He's- _god_ , he's really gone. I'm- Mrs. H, I'm sorry, I can't-” He broke away from the embrace, holding both of Mrs. Hudson's hands. “I just can't right now. I'm so sorry.” He turned away from her and trudged up the stairs, ashamed of himself.

 

_You can't even be there for her for a few minutes. You selfish prick._

 

The door leading directly to the living room was shut, but the kitchen door was slightly ajar. John pushed through. Across the table were microscope slides covered in various substances, used cotton balls, half-finished cups of tea.

 

Every emotion John had worked so hard to suppress since _it_ happened suddenly rose in him like a tidal wave. Anger came first, and it came hot and strong and powerful. His hand ripped across the table, scattering the slides, throwing a teacup across the room. John barely registered the sound of it smashing against the wall. He was vaguely aware of his own voice, a broken and pained cry, but he couldn't hear anything. The rage roiled within him, till it turned from a burning to an aching. His chest felt both numb and explosive at the same time, crushed under the weight of his emotions, and his inability to deal with them. He leaned against the table, his arms shaking from the effort of trying to hold himself up.

 

The blood on his shoe glistened in the dim lights of the kitchen, and John, unable to tolerate it any longer, took the sponge from the sink. Kicking both shoes off, he grabbed the offending one and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed it until there was no trace of Sherlock anymore. He wished he could do the same to himself. He'd give anything, do anything, if it meant forgetting this pain.

 

Socks dampened by the puddle John had made on the floor were removed and thrown to a corner of the kitchen. Likely they'd be forgotten there but it wasn't of importance to him at that moment. The glass doors to the living area were slid shut too, the rippled, tinted glass showing discoloured fragments of what sat in the next room. He knew that at some point, he'd have to face that room for some reason or another. And that the longer he waited, the harder it would get to do so. He got the feeling that many things would be like that from now on.

 

Opening the door itself wasn't as hard as John had anticipated- like ripping off a band-aid. But he couldn't look up from the floor. He couldn't face what waited for him in that room- and, more importantly, what _didn't_ wait there, sitting across from the kitchen, violin in hand. Or maybe deep in thought, cross-legged on the floor. On the sofa, sleeping for the first time in five days. Standing at the window, watching a client oscillate on the pavement. So he didn't look- just walked, until he bumped into his chair and let himself collapse into it. The static returned, and John felt and heard nothing.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, in the end. Exhaustion lapped at the edge of consciousness, threatening to drown him. But he didn't want to fall asleep here. His chair was too uncomfortable for that, the room too quiet.

 

The static was so powerful that John didn't even realise he'd gotten up from his seat and shuffled down the hall until he reached the bed in the end room. It looked inviting, far more than his own. High quality cotton sheets, satin pillowcases. A soft mattress. Thick, heavy blankets. He crawled in with no hesitation and sank into the bed. The room was silent and dark and warm.

 

When he cried, he didn't try to make himself stop as he normally would. He let the tears fall across his face. He allowed the sobs to wrack his body. He buried his face into the pillow and breathed deeply and all he could smell was Sherlock- his shampoo, his soap, him.

 

He cried until exhaustion finally swallowed him up.

 


End file.
